I was formally introduced to antiracist pedagogy in the spring of 2016, several months before I traveled for the first time to the Rosedale Freedom Project (RFP) in Rosedale, Mississippi, to teach a course on music and politics to high school students. Oft romanticized as the place where blues guitarist Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil at the crossroads, Rosedale is a small town in the Delta region. The majority of its population is Black, and consistently, more than half of this population has lived below the poverty line. The RFP seeks to help send its students, the majority of whom are Black and profoundly underserved by the state of Mississippi, to and through college. In preparation for the summer (and at the request of the director of the RFP), I read a number of foundational texts on antiracism and critical pedagogy including Paulo Freire's Pedagogy of the Oppressed (1968), bell hooks's Teaching to Transgress: Education as the Practice of Freedom (1994), and Beverly Daniel Tatum's “Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria?”: And Other Conversations About Race (1997). As a white woman with no prior experience in Mississippi, I also read Nan Elizabeth Woodruff's history of the Delta region, American Congo: The African American Struggle in the Delta (2003) and Jesmyn Ward's novel Where the Line Bleeds (2008), among other texts, and reflected on how to design a course that would further the RFP's mission of “supporting the Mississippi Delta's young leaders in the development of critical consciousness and the practice of justice.”

One moment from the much-discussed 2017 curriculum reform in the Music Department at Harvard University has stuck with me and transformed the way I approach teaching music in higher education. In one of the meetings leading up to the revision, graduate students in the department led an activity in which attendees—who included undergraduate students, graduate students, and faculty alike—got into small groups and discussed the relative merits of three hypothetical models for the new undergraduate curriculum. Each of the models involved decentering to some extent the existing curriculum's emphasis on the history of Western European music and dominant music theoretical approaches to it. After a short while, we all gathered back together and one person from each group shared a bit about what had transpired. From the circle of desks nearest the door, an undergraduate student rose to speak and expressed enthusiasm for a broadening of curricular coverages. But, they said, their group also had some reservations about jettisoning the overall focus on Western European concert music altogether. “We still need to learn about our history,” they said, while a faculty member nodded behind them.

In the teaching of history, oversimplification is, perhaps, unavoidable. In certain cases, however, that oversimplification can be deadly. There are some lessons that are too complex, some stories that are too nuanced, to be reduced in such a way. By their contours and particularities, they resist easy digestion. In the spirit of this particularity, my contribution to the colloquy is specific, but hopefully applicable to contexts beyond its specificity: I argue that the US Black Freedom Movement (or civil rights movement) and its music is a story that must be taught in all its complexity, for oversimplifying it does concrete harm to the ongoing struggle against white supremacy in the present. Teaching the US Black Freedom Movement and its music is also vital if we hope to enable our students to be forces of understanding, healing, and justice in the world, and should be an integral component of any undergraduate music curriculum that hopes to be antiracist.